


Someone Who Can Not Love You Back

by invictofiction



Category: Avengers, Incredible Hulk (2008), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Asylum, Friendship, Gen, Gen Fic, Other, alternate universe - psych ward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invictofiction/pseuds/invictofiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton volunteered to be relocated so he could help people in need, and the reasons he stayed probably weren't so selfless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone Who Can Not Love You Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Lionheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lionheart/gifts).



This wasn’t what Clint thought he’d be doing when he was in nursing school, he remembered, as he looked at the shade of the man he used to know. Twenty years ago, when he’d been a little more spry, less worldly and a little more wealthy, Clint Barton had wanted to be a medical technician on call for the studios. Movies, television shows, commercials; he wanted to be behind the scenes.

Four years of school, several hundred hours working in ERs and one trip to Brazil had changed the course of Clint's life. Or, more to the point, it was who he met while in Brazil that would derail his entire life.

It was sixteen years ago when Clint had first gotten his clearance from Doctors Without Borders. He’d applied on a whim and from some helpful goading from Bobbi, his partner at the studios. For all he knew, Bobbi had put in a good word for him; Clint felt he was rather unremarkable, otherwise.

He was scheduled to fly to Brazil in less than a week and as he spent the time busily packing, it occurred to him that this opportunity was so much more important than watching people be filmed, than babying spoiled actors and chasing after stunt crews because they took the ‘good sport’ trope too far. He might actually get to use the knowledge he’d gained from school and help people.

The flight to Brazil was long and crowded and when the plane touched down and that first rush of humid, filthy air reached him, Clint knew he’d made the kind of decision that would alter the course of his life forever. The kind of choice that other people might agonize over, drink for hours about, and then regret. Clint was not like those people; he realized, as he stepped off the plane and into the whirlwind of activity. The scene was as familiar as any metropolitan airport, but the language wasn’t and it took him several weeks before he could reach equilibrium. Clint knew some Portuguese, of course, but it was a far cry from a quiet classroom to a bustling Brazilian city. The car ride that followed was better. The bus ride after that was bumpy, but Clint didn’t mind; he was too exhausted from nearly a day’s worth of travel to continue to be conscious. When he was shaken awake by a leathery skinned older man, Clint had a moment of complete disorientation before he remembered that this was Brazil and that he lived there now.

The remainder of that first year had been difficult but Clint had soldiered through with a smile. It was dirty, hot, and crowded in the cities, but he found that as the weeks dragged by, he loved every minute of it. Then one day, while he was at the local mercado to stock up on that week’s supplies, he happened across another American. A man who, by the sounds of it, didn’t know Portuguese very well, if at all.

“Sounds like you need some help, friend.” Clint offered as he stepped towards him with an open smile. The man returned it, grateful for the intervention.

That had been the start of it. Bruce Banner had followed Clint home that night because he had insisted that Bruce needed some proper care. It was clear Bruce wasn’t eating regularly, or sleeping enough and Clint was a Nurse, dammit, he knew things. So, one day had turned into one week and Christ if Clint wasn’t homesick, suddenly. It’s the kind of ache that you could have ignored, if only it wasn’t pointed out.

Bruce had a weariness about him, like he was as frayed as the clothes he insisted on wearing; always three sizes too big. It didn’t seem to cause him any real harm, though, so Clint never brought it up. Several months turned into years and Bruce had stayed. They’d developed rituals, routines. They fit together in a lot of ways, which was good, because in the Favelas there wasn’t room for much else. You either fit in and carried on or you let it drive you crazy.

Clint found he didn’t really know how to explain Bruce. What Clint _did_ know is that he’d be lonely without him. Bruce was a good cook, he had a sharp wit and was clearly very intelligent. Bruce got a job as a handyman fixing things around the area. Sometimes he’d be called away for several days at a time; Bruce knew how to do a lot and that was valuable. Clint found that when Bruce was gone, their little apartment, if it could really be called that, seemed far too big and much too empty.

Then one day the front door had come off the hinges and Bruce had been arrested, and deported back to America; wanted on charges of murder in the first degree.

On that day, Clint had witnessed something change in Bruce. The docile man he’d lived with for so long had become vicious and wild, snarling and violent. Bruce stuck out at the men and wounded three of them before Clint had intervened, finally able to will himself to action. Bruce calmed, marginally, at least enough for him to be escorted to the waiting vehicle. Clint glared at the ubiquitous black GMC which sat outside, idling on the dirty cobbled street. It seemed to take up the entire ally way with it's bulk. Clint hated it. 

Then, Clint found that he was faced with a choice, if it could be called that. Go back to America and be there for his friend or continue on with his career and work in Brazil.

Clint’s flight landed at JFK at 1600 the next day.

The trial was intense; Bruce was sullen and scared and the Judge ruled that it was self defense on Bruce's part, but Bruce wasn’t released. He had been forced to undergo several psych evaluations and was found to have clear indications of Schizophrenia. Bruce was to be transferred to the Culver University Psych ward, under the watchful eye of Dr. Nicholas Fury; A man who’d breezed into the court room, signed some papers, looked directly at Clint and left.

Dr. Fury, Clint was disgusted (and slightly more interested) to find, had lost his eye to a rather violent patient by the name of Johan Schmidt; a delusional man who had attacked him with a plastic spoon. 

Mala, the ward’s Head Nurse had taken a strange kind of pity on Clint and had offered him a job, for which he was grossly overqualified. He didn’t work the wing where Bruce was kept, of course, but it kept him close all the same.

—-

That had been Sixteen years ago.

Twelve years ago, the delusions had started. Bruce was losing touch with reality. Some days he was lucid enough to hold a conversation with Clint but he was never sure if Bruce knew it was him and not some character in his mind, come to life.

One day Bruce called him Hawkeye, huddled close to him and spoke in low tones about how he’d been framed, that ‘Hulk’ was not violent and how he had to get out of this place.

Clint could only blink back his tears and nod; he was losing his best friend to a disease they couldn’t control. The medications, if they even managed to get Bruce to take them, had stopped working altogether. 

Bruce held Clint's face and looked so broken so unbearably distraught that Clint thought that for maybe that one moment Bruce knew what was going on. He didn’t. Bruce ran the pad of this thumb under Clint’s eye, catching tears, before he kissed Clint, chastely.

Oh, Clint broke down a little, then, because that had _never_ been their relationship. They’d been roommates, best friends, cohorts, even, but never lovers.

Clint kissed him back anyway, because it was real and comforting in a twisted sense, but Bruce seemed to know something was wrong anyway, because he broke away and held his fingers to his own lips. He stared at Clint who stared back; Bruce was lucid for the first time in months. Clint told him what had happened, where he was, why he was there.

“Oh God, no.”

———

Clint had no idea that it would be the last time he would be able to talk to Bruce as Bruce, because if he had, he wouldn’t have ever stopped. Clint would have never let him go back to that place in his mind where he was always running and scared. A place, Clint feared, where Bruce was utterly alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this based on a prompt from Solid Mercury, and I posted it on my Tumblr, invictofiction. Edited it a bit to repost here and I am dedicating it to my friend, The_Lionheart.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Truth You Might Be Runnin' From](https://archiveofourown.org/works/399693) by [The_Lionheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lionheart/pseuds/The_Lionheart)




End file.
